


Mon Chéri

by MangoMartini



Series: Irresistible [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cock Rings, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoMartini/pseuds/MangoMartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to "Secondhand Smoke," or: what happens when Sebastian Moran finds Sherlock Holmes in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon Chéri

Even without that ridiculous coat, it doesn't take long to find Sherlock Holmes in Paris.

After all, Sebastian knows Moriarty's empire as well as he knows the back of his hand or the construction of a rifle. He stops by one contact to give them a heads up, and finds them luckily unaware of what is about to happen. The rest, well, Sebastian never much cared for them anyway, and the only use he could see for them now were as bait for the detective.

But that's not where Sebastian wants to find him. He doesn't want to confront Holmes while he's building cases or breaking down facts—Sebastian's had enough of mixing business with pleasure over the years. What he wants now is more of last time, of the sly games and assumed identities, of slight touches that turn rougher in hotel rooms. It's the singular thought that kept him captivated the entire journey to Paris.

And so Sebastian waits, exercises his rusty French in cafes and boutiques. After years of schooling his accent is impeccable, even if a few nouns still evade his memory. But it's more than passable for what he has planned.

Sebastian stalks Holmes through Paris, down winding streets and in-between groups of tourists to the point where he is sure Holmes _must_ know that he is being followed. Sebastian could be wholly unseen when he wanted to be, but there is no reason for that now, not when the throngs of tourists are at places so thick Sebastian worries he will lose his quarry.

But he doesn't, of course he doesn't. He follows Holmes all the way to the park surrounding the Eiffel Tower. It's green even in early spring, and the unusually warm day has drawn out people with picnic blankets and champagne to the park. They sprawl over the grass in groups of twos and threes, the feeling between them as warm as the air and blue sky rendering the whole thing into something Seurat himself could not have done justice to.

And yet it's all background noise and compared to the silhouette of Holmes. Even in those jeans and black sweatshirt Sebastian knew it was him, and when Holmes seemed to slow his pace, looking everything like the a tourist seeing the tower for the first time, Sebastian made his move. He hurried his pace up, easily catching up to Holmes, who had stopped moving, and before Holmes could protest Sebastian looped his arm through Holmes'.

“Ah, there you are darling,” Sebastian says in flawless French, before leaning down slightly to press a kiss to Holmes' cheek.

“I was starting to wonder if I would see you in Paris after all,” is Holmes answer, also in French.

Sebastian just moves his arm to around Holmes' waist. It's a farce of last time, and the way Holmes relaxes into the touch, puts more weight on Sebastian, proves that he knows it too. They're not friends, or lovers, or whatever this looks like to whoever has lost interest with the tower long enough to look at them. But they are expert liars, to others and themselves, and what are a few more lies on top of a mountain of untruths? 

“And I was wondering,” Sebastian replies, leaning down to nuzzle the side of Holmes' head with his own, “if your accent would be as atrocious as last time.” It's not a gesture that's just for show—even Sebastian can't convince himself of that. It's an honest need for a warm, living body that will take any affection he has to give without biting back.

Holmes seems to vibrate from the attention, as close to purring as Sebastian has ever seen a human do. He looks young without the coat, the collared shirt, without the grey backdrop of London to illuminate his cheekbones in dingy yellows and dark shadows. It only becomes worse when Holmes smiles, really smiles, and says, “Would you like to hear it again? I'm still practicing it.”

He's never been one for laughing, not really, but the comment quirks up the corners of Sebastian's mouth, and he presses his fingertips more firmly against Holmes' side before relaxing after a moment. “I refuse to speak like an American. But I will not stop you if you want to make a fool of yourself.”

“You're too kind,” is Holmes' response, still in French. He then kisses Sebastian on the mouth.

Sebastian doesn't know, doesn't want to ask, if the kiss was a kiss or any a continuation of the ruse, as if anyone here is paying enough attention to them to catch the quick kiss. Maybe Holmes knew something Sebastian didn't. Or maybe the bastard had just _deduced_ the way that it would leave Sebastian's lips tingling even after he ran his tongue over them, bit them, pressed them together to try and rid them of the sensation left behind from such a chaste action.

He had planned to use this position, this leverage, to lead Holmes off to his hotel room, where he could spread those long legs out on the decadent sheets and fuck him open with proper lube, all while Holmes has his hands tied to the headboard. That scenario and millions more that he did not get the chance to act out last time had buzzed in his veins up until this moment, when a single kiss seemed to silence those plans—for now, at least.

“Have you ever toured the Eiffel Tower?”

“No,” Holmes shoots back, and it's in his own voice, quiet and hasty. “Mycroft tried to get me to once and I refused because it seemed like a dreadful waste of time. I mean,” he adds, vowels shifting into that grotesque American accent, “No. I haven't.”

The defiant pout does nothing to make him look older, but it convinces Sebastian that he will not get Holmes anywhere near the lines for the monument they are slowly strolling toward. So Sebastian angles his head down so he can speak right into Holmes' ear. “It's a beautiful view,” he begins, still in French. “Nearly every picture of Paris has the Eiffel Tower right at the center. So that's how people think of Paris. But up there on the tower, you can see Paris without the tower. And it's better, somehow, to see the city free from such a domineering piece of architecture.”

Sebastian is quiet for a moment, giving Holmes time to fill in the gaps, knows that he can. Or that he has to, because Sebastian will never speak of Moriarty to Holmes again, and never like that, the way he means, the way he needs to, the way he is sure Holmes has already figured out based on something ridiculously small like the way Sebastian paused between certain words. And yet it doesn't feel intimate, not like last time. Maybe because, no matter how many metaphors Sebastian hides them behind, he has already lost all his secrets to Sherlock Holmes.

“You look like you want to say something,” Sebastian says. Holmes has his lips slightly parted, brow creased, and judging from the way he pulls his face back to something more neutral, Holmes wasn't even aware of it.

Sebastian can see the signs of that big brain working, processing, knows them well. All geniuses, he has learned, are essentially identical on the most base levels. But instead of his usual annoyance, fear, violent desire to rip open the skull to try to see how exactly that brain is working and to grab hold of it to try to read its secrets, Sebastian only feels a calm curiosity. It laps at his earlobes like placid waves, something soft that he can wait out.

“I was thinking,” Holmes began, chewing on the accent, “that it's about time for lunch. You wouldn't happen to know any good places to eat around here, would you?”

The answer is as easy as the wait. “Is that all?” He kisses Holmes again, quick as before. “Come on, then. I know a place around here.”

It's not convenient to keep walking huddled up like that, and so Sebastian drops his arm, ready to walk side-by-side Holmes. What he's not ready for are the thin fingers that slide against and then in-between his own, perfectly filling the empty space as if they have any right to. Sebastian doesn't let it show on his face, keeps his expression neutral as he explains, in French, how he once personally escorted this chef down from London to Paris so that he didn't fall prey to the hit that was out on him. This is the French he knows, business French, but every time he tries to stop he sees the light in Holmes' impossibly ethereal eyes and keeps talking.

The cafe, with its wrought iron-enclosed patio and brightly painted facade, is predictably busy. Everyone wants a chance to sit outside, and the food has those willing to go without the view and the weather eagerly taking any indoor tables. The man at the front of the cafe is all too willing to send Sebastian away with a brief brush off before Sebastian says his name. And it's comforting, really, to know that tables in crowded cafes still mysteriously open up at those two words and a title.

It's showing off too, the same way it is when he orders for both himself and Holmes in flawless French. Their food arrives soon after and Holmes looks at the dish, fish in a beurre blanc sauce with seasonal vegetables on the side—something light but not too light, and flavorful enough to tempt even the most petulant eaters.

“How did you know I would like this?” Holmes asks after taking a bit.

Sebastian finishes up the bite of his sandwich, sips his water, and shrugs, as if the dismissive gesture will lessen what he is about to say. “I've had a lot of practice ordering for people who don't generally eat.”

He immediately regrets the honesty. Holmes looks down at his plate with an emotion Sebastian can't place, but it's distinctly not good. Holmes picks at the fish, but instead spears a vegetable instead and chews on it slowly.

“We never did this, you know,” Sebastian says, before eating more of his sandwich. “This,” he repeats, gesturing around to the cafe and the sun and the people and everything beautiful about this moment. It was nothing like the scraped-clean takeout boxes that littered the coffee table, not yet in the trash because Moriarty had gotten it into his head that he needed to carve up another part of Sebastian's flesh instead of let him clean up. Those nights were dark and danger and vindaloo curry. Those nights were absolutely nothing like this.

So it's understandable when Holmes asks, “Do you wish you had?”

“No.” The answer is so quick and fast that it's not French at all but English. “ _Non_ ,” Sebastian repeats. “I would never wish for anything other than what I had. I know better than to do that.

Sebastian wants to ask the question back, but by the time he thinks to the time seems to have passed. But it doesn't stop Sebastian from wondering if Holmes' mind is here, or three hundred miles away in London. And that's the problem with being a professional liar: the truth ultimately becomes untenable.

The conversation stagnates after that, and the ambient noises of other conversations the clinking of glasses, and the squawks of passing tourists take over. Holmes keeps eating, at any rate, and if the tradeoff is less talking, well, that's alright. It allows Sebastian to think how this must look, a man in a suit eating lunch with a man who looks no more than twenty five, dressed in clothes that looked to have cost less than the meals they were eating.

“Anything else you would like to do in Paris?” Sebastian asks, lunch finished. “You haven't been doing much sightseeing,” he adds with a knowing smile. He looks down and, to his pleasant surprise, Holmes' plate is clean as well.

“Business before pleasure,” Holmes replies.

“And have you concluded your business in Paris?”

Sebastian can see it, that look on Holmes face that says he's contemplating another ridiculous comment like last time. It's endearing as long as Sebastian doesn't think about it too hard, think of who Holmes would prefer to say these things to, of how lonely it must be inside that mind. Those aren't questions mean for the warm, Parisian air. Not today.

Holmes nods. “I think so,” he says, but then adds, “yes.”

“On to pleasure it is, then,” Sebastian replies, enjoying the look of indignation over Holmes' face for the brief moment it's there. Sebastian pays, puts his arm back around Holmes' waist and dips his hand down into the back pocket of Holmes' jeans. He leads the man to a cab and tells the driver where to go, keeping his hand firmly on Holmes' thigh the entire way there, rubbing against the jean material with his thumb and pinching each time Holmes began to squirm too much. It's an amusing game, a small show of control, and it lasts until the cab pulls up in front of the hotel.

The lavish hotel, with its gilded lobby and signs only in French, was a common haunt of Sebastian's whenever he had been sent over for business. Those who worked here knew how to be discrete, and how not to remember him leading another man back to his room.

And is he leading, really, because his arm is back around Holmes' like he's afraid the man will dart off, disappear in a wisp of smoke. It's a fear that lasts until they're crowded together in the elevator, the size of it barely allowing for any room between them.

“I don't need to pretend to be intoxicated,” Holmes says, not looking at Sebastian's eyes but at his lips.

Sebastian licks them, spotting the slight way Holmes' eyes widen. “That's alright,” he replies, finally switching to English, “because I'm going to kiss you anyway.”

He does, pressing Holmes against the wall of the elevator, expecting another soft, almost distant kiss. But this is nothing like last time. Holmes feels ready, prepared to pounce the moment Sebastian is on him and it catches Sebastian off guard. Before the elevator can open they're pressing against each other, Holmes struggling, it would seem, to shove Sebastian against a wall this time. Sebastian just bites his bottom lip for it, shoving his tongue in Holmes' mouth but pulling away as soon as the elevator button dings.

It takes entirely too long to get back into the hotel room, get the key in the lock and the door shut behind them and the moment he does, Sebastian feels Holmes' hands insistent on the side of his face, bringing their mouths back together with a singular intensity. Sebastian grabs Holmes' hips, shoving his hands up past the fabric of the sweatshirt to get a better grasp on the man. “I preferred the suit,” Sebastian says with a growl, pulling back to tug the sweatshirt up and off of Holmes.

The shirt comes off too, stuck in the sweatshirt, and the bare skin of Holmes' chest is a testament to their last time together. Sebastian can still see his twin teeth marks on Holmes' shoulders, the red of the initial marks having mottled down into a vibrant purple. The mark on Holmes' neck is less pronounced but still, clearly, a mouth-shaped bruise. He's hit with the sudden need to make more marks, to destroy every inch of skin he can see, when Holmes pulls him in for another kiss.

Sebastian moves fast, grabbing Holmes' wrists and pinning them above the man's head. He looks Holmes in the eyes as he speaks, committing to memory the blown-out pupils, wide with lust. “Keep your arms above your head,” Sebastian orders. Despite the change in location and time of day, they're still playing a game, this game, and Sebastian won't let a few shows of affection change that. “Do I make myself clear?”

Holmes looks up at his own wrists as if he's not sure how they got there, but doesn't try to struggle against Sebastian's grip. Not that he'd have a chance getting out of it, Sebastian knows. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” Sebastian replies, squeezing Holmes' wrists before letting go of them entirely.

Holmes, true to his word, doesn't move his wrists.

Sebastian turns his attention to Holmes' collarbone, kissing and biting at the skin and ignoring the noises Holmes makes in favor of finding just the right spot to bite down, suck, work another bruise onto with a singular focus. He pulls off as Holmes starts to wriggle, admiring his work.

Holmes is in the middle of making a whimpering noise when Sebastian dives back down and latches on the same spot on the other side of Holmes' chest, breaking the skin between his teeth and creating a symmetrical mark on the other side. The whimpers turn to whines and words that could be his name, but aren't articulate enough. But Holmes still hasn't moved his hands away from the door.

“Very good,” Sebastian praises, not missing the way Holmes moves at the praise, as if it's a hand caressing his damaged skin. “I think you deserve a little reward, don't you?” His tone is even, calm, but Sebastian feels anything but. He's going to fuck Holmes, wants to more than he wants to admit to himself, but more than that he wants to see Holmes _squirm_ , to see him desperate and wanting because of what Sebastian's doing to him, and not because of what someone else hasn't done.

“Sir, please. Yes, sir,” Holmes babbles, chest heaving. He licks his lips and Sebastian can see the way his eyes flick over to the bed before looking back.

It's an easy enough tell to read, and Sebastian smirks when he sees it. “You haven't been that good,” he chides. “Not yet.” Because he knows Holmes can see the tent in his suit pants, knows that all the data he has to deduce from implies that they will be fucking. But Sebastian has also been trained never to be boring.

So it's a fantastic sound, the way Holmes gasps loudly when Sebastian drops to his knees in front of the other man. “Don't move,” Sebastian orders, commanding even when on his knees.

Holmes nods, but when Sebastian doesn't move he adds, “I won't move, sir.”

That's enough for Sebastian. He unzips Holmes' jeans, tugging them down around the man's ankles and being careful not to touch his cock at all. The pants come down next, pulled down around Holmes' thighs, until his hard cock is free and right in front of Sebastian's face. It's gorgeous like the rest of him, hard already, and Sebastian looks up at Holmes as he wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slowly, watching Holmes bite his bottom lip.

“Stop that,” Sebastian snaps, and Holmes obediently opens his mouth slightly. “I want to hear how loud you are from me sucking your cock.” And if Holmes nods, Sebastian doesn't see it, because he turns his attention to following through on his word. He licks the head of Holmes' cock first, getting used to the taste, the weight of it on his tongue, and the unwelcome thoughts about the last time he did this and who he did it to.

Above, Holmes is back to making those breathy, whimpering noises that have haunted Sebastian since their first encounter. Sebastian takes more of Holmes in his mouth, sucking on the head, tonguing at the slit, loving the way those whimpers turn into gasps.

“More, please, sir,” Holmes gasps, the sir hastily tacked on to the end as if he had almost forgotten it.

Sebastian can't turn down a request like that, and so he complies, mouth and hand working in tandem, tongue pressing against the underside of Holmes' cock, and it's all going so well until Holmes' hips move forward in a short, aborted thrust.

The hand that was on Holmes' cock flies up to his hip, pressing Holmes back against the door, nails digging into Holmes' skin. Sebastian takes his time pulling his mouth off Holmes' cock, slow and wet and lewd and then lips coming off with a pop. “I ordered you not to move,” Sebastian says, voice hoarser than before, “and what did you do?”

“I moved,” Holmes replies, even though it's clear from his face that he doesn't want to admit to it.

Sebastian just shakes his head, rises to his feet and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. It's a move incongruous with the fine suit he has on, but Sebastian doesn't care. “Yes you did,” he answers, when he's back on his feet. He can feel the strain in his knees already but tries to ignore it, doesn't want to think of the logistics of this encounter, only the fantasy. “What do you think I should do now?”

“Punish me, sir,” Holmes replies quickly, like it really won't be a punishment at all.

He's standing far enough away from Holmes that they're not touching, that even if Holmes dared to move again, he couldn't touch Sebastian without taking a step forward. It's calming for Sebastian, gives him a moment to think, to contemplate what he has in the bag near his suitcase, the bag he purchased for just this sort of thing, since he knew someone like Holmes couldn't be good for long.

“Stay,” he orders, making eye contact with Holmes before turning his back on him. It's so different from last time in that respect—Sebastian willingly turning his back on Holmes, Holmes willingly staying where he's put without a gun or a knife between them. Or at least, not a gun or a knife that's out. They're there in Sebastian's bag, expertly kept and ready to be used, but they aren't what he goes for. He has another weapon in mind, something small, and when he finds it he pockets it before turning back to Holmes.

He contemplates not kneeling again, but there's no way to get around it. So Sebastian is back on his knees in front of Holmes, trying to ignore the look of confusion on his face. Instead he focuses on Holmes' jeans, bunching them around his ankle and then ordering, “Lift,” to get Holmes to life his foot. Once more and the jeans are off, tosses across the room, and the process is repeated to get Holmes' pants off.

He's beautiful like this, Sebastian knows, looking up at Holmes, arms still above his head, body naked and cock hard. Sebastian can see the way Holmes' chest moves up and down, not enough meat on his bones to hid it. Beautiful, and entirely at his disposal. The way it should be, really, Sebastian thinks as he reaches into his pocket. A body like this would have been wasted on that pathetic doctor.

Sebastian holds the object up for Holmes. “Do you know what this is?” he asks, wanting to hear the words from Holmes' mouth.

“A cock ring,” Holmes answers promptly.

“Very good.” Sebastian stretches out before sliding it down Holmes' cock, his saliva from earlier easing the way. “You're going to wear this,” Sebastian says, situation the ring at the base of Holmes' cock, “until I decide you can come.”

“Yes, sir,” Holmes replies. His voice is strained, and Sebastian can see him visibly struggle not to move his hips, to experimentally thrust with the ring around his cock just to see what it will feel like.

Sebastian orders Holmes to go wait on the bed, on his hands and knees, and smacks his arse and he finally moves toward the bed. The fleshy _thwack_ reverberates through the quiet of the hotel room, as does the breathy moan from Holmes that follows.

He retrieves the lube, takes off his shoes, and considers taking off his clothes as well. But the softer silence between them this time is already bordering on something it shouldn't, and so Sebastian takes off his socks and shoes, his suit jacket, but leaves the rest on, a barrier between what they can have and what they can't.

Sebastian turns to see Holmes, arse in the air and face already on the pillow, like he's anticipating what's to come. This is what he can have, this brief connection of skin-to-skin, like a lighthouse in purgatory.

He kneels on the bed next to Holmes, sets the lube down. “Arms behind your back,” Sebastian orders, and watches as Holmes struggles to adjust, to comply, the way Holmes rests all his weight on his chest and face. Sebastian undoes the tie from around his neck and knots it around Holmes' wrists, “since you had such trouble staying where I put you.” Holmes tugs on the tie and Sebastian knots it again, knowing there is no way Holmes can escape from it.

“I remember how well you begged for it last time,” Sebastian says. He moves behind Holmes, grabs his arse and pushes the cheeks apart so that he can drag a thumb down over Holmes' hole. He does it again and Holmes' body nearly convulses at the brief touch. “Can't stop thinking about it.”

Sebastian holds on to Holmes' arse with one hand while his other picks up the lube. He deftly flicks open the cap and drizzles some at the top of Holmes' arse, before clicking the cap shut again and dropping the bottle. “You were so desperate for it back in Sweden,” Sebastian continues, hands back to pushing Holmes' arse cheeks apart, thumbs now slick with lube pushing at the entrance of his hole but never going past it. “That was barely a week ago.” He presses a little further with his thumb, but it's barely any pressure at all.

Holmes moans, “Please,” and it's an echo of last time.

“Please _what_?” Sebastian says, now dragging a finger down Holmes' arse, circling his hole but still not pushing inside as much as he desperately wants to. But he has a sniper's patience, even here, and the way that Holmes whines beneath the simple ministrations makes it worth it.

“Fuck me,” Holmes pleads, trying without success to thrust his arse back on Sebastian's finger. “I need it, need you to fuck me, need—”

His pleas are cut off with a howl as Sebastian, with lube but no other preparation, thrusts his finger into Holmes. “There we go,” Sebastian says smugly, fucking Holmes with one and then two fingers. Holmes' near-constant stream of moans stutter at the second finger before they pick back up again, lower, louder, with half-formed words Sebastian can't even parse, too focused on watching his fingers disappear in and out of the writhing arse under his hands.

Holmes demands more, and Sebastian pulls his fingers out, ignoring the way Holmes whimpers at the loss. “If you want more,” Sebastian says, only half-stalling so he has enough time to undo his trousers, take out and lube up his hard cock, “you need to beg for it.” Sebastian strokes himself, can't help it, wants to thrust right into Holmes' waiting arse but wants to hear him beg for it more.

And Holmes doesn't disappoint. The litany of _please_ and _more_ soon turn into more articulate phrases of how much he loved being fucked on Sebastian's cock, how much he missed it, how much he needs it back inside him, sir please _sir_. And Sebastian keeps stroking himself, focusing on his pleasure, his cock, and the idea that he's getting off the filthy words coming out of the other man's mouth and not the fact that he finally feels wanted again.

He smacks Holmes' arse one more time, the sound as good as the last and the bright read mark the blow leaves almost as good as the way Holmes moans from it. Sebastian pushes his hips forward, drags the head of his cock down and around Holmes' hole, teasing for just a moment longer before thrusting in. He can't help but moan as well, the sound of it drowned out under Holmes' voice, and with another firm push he's fully inside Holmes again.

“ _Finally_ ,” Holmes moans, trying to thrust back.

Sebastian drags his nails down Holmes' back before grabbing his hips and holding him in place. “No,” he replies, “this isn't for you. You're being punished,” he reminds Holmes with a snap of his hips, “because you didn't obey my order.” Each word is punctuated with a hard thrust. “This isn't for you. This is for me.”

Holmes replies with a, “Yes, sir,” the words managed in half-breaths and short gasps, and Sebastian can feel himself coming closer to the edge. Sebastian moves his hands from Holmes' hips to his shoulders, pressing down, leaning forward, biting Holmes' neck and pressing his entire weight against his smaller body until he comes with a growl, face buried in curls on nape of Holmes' neck.

It's so good that, for a moment, Sebastian forgets that Holmes hasn't come yet. But when he remembers, Sebastian pulls himself out of Holmes, readjusts his position, and wraps two arms around the man's thin chest so that he can make Holmes sit up on his heels, hands still bound behind his back.

“Still so hard after being pounded by my cock. Do you want to come?” Sebastian asks, even though it's obvious. He has one arm around Holmes' waist and the other hand is stroking his oversensitive cock, Holmes' back pressed to his still-clothed chest. Holmes eyes are squeezed closed and he nods, but Sebastian demands, “Say it.”

“Yes, sir,” Holmes says between gritted teeth. “I want to come.”

Sebastian chuckles, nips at Holmes' ear. “Well because you've been such a good boy, I think I'll allow it.” Carefully, he works the cock ring off Holmes' cock, tossing it aside as Holmes nearly sags with relief. “Come then,” Sebastian says, holding Holmes tight and jerking of his cock with quick, harsh strokes, “that's an order.”

And Holmes does, moaning loudly as he comes all over the bed and Sebastian's hand sobbing at the force of the orgasm. Sebastian doesn't let go, holds Holmes and strokes him through it until his body stops shaking and his breathing seems to return to normal. Only then does he lay Holmes down on the bed.

Holmes doesn't move, but Sebastian does. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before going to the attached bathroom and washing his hands and splashing some water on his face. His reflection looks wrecked: lips bright red, hair disheveled, shirt translucent and sticky with sweat. But Sebastian doesn't dwell on it. He goes back to the bedroom and when he sees that Holmes still hasn't moved he, stretches his arms out above his head. He cracks his knuckles, rolls his neck, and says, “Good to know it was as good for you the second time around.”

“Don't be so smug,” Holmes shoots back petulantly. “You only created a chemical reaction. Dopamine and serotonin. The same as cocaine.”

“Is that what you think of all this?” Sebastian asks. He moves over to Holmes, touching his forearm first before moving to undo the intricate knots keeping the tie around his wrists. Sebastian tosses the tie to the floor, and when Holmes doesn't immediately move his arms to another position Sebastian takes one of Holmes' wrists, holding it in his hands and massaging it gently with his fingers.

“I don't think this is anything,” Holmes replies, but there isn't the same bite in his tone.

Sebastian hums, a noncommittal noise, and keeps massaging until he's satisfied before moving on to pay the same attention to Holmes' other wrist. “This isn't anything,” he agrees, “but it's more than that.”

Holmes pulls his wrist away from Sebastian's grip, toward his body, before rolling over on his stomach and saying, “You're wrong. That's all sex ever is. Chemical reactions to increase dopamine and serotonin and temporarily shut down functions in the lateral orbitofrontal cortex.”

“It's not,” Sebastian counters.

Holmes picks his head up long enough to look at Sebastian and ask, “And how would you know?” before dropping it back down on the bed. 

Sebastian doesn’t dignify that question with a reply, doesn’t want to have to explain to Holmes the extent of what he knows because it’s all tied up in what he’s lost. Instead he leans over Holmes so that he can place his hands on the man’s shoulders, fingertips skimming the bite mark Sebastian made on the back of Holmes’ neck, and begins to massage his shoulders. 

He can feel the way Holmes tenses at first, the muscles contracting. But Holmes soon relaxes. Sebastian can see his body sagging, the resistance giving out under his skilled hands. He’s good at this, knows he’s good at this, and Holmes is in agreement, if the soft noises he’s making into the hotel mattress are any indication. 

Sebastian moves his hands lower, massaging down Holmes’ shoulder blades, his sides, the bumps of his spin. Holmes doesn’t say anything, and neither does Sebastian. His hands reach Holmes’ lower back, massage there, and then move back up with no attention paid to his arse at all. It makes Holmes stir, but he doesn’t say anything about it, and so Sebastian continues. 

The pace is slow and the mood calm, and Sebastian has no idea how long he’s been working the flesh under his fingers. He could go on longer if he wanted to, until his fingers were raw or until Holmes fell asleep, whichever happened first. 

But Sebastian stops anyway. He stops and nudges Holmes’ shoulder with his hand, asking, “Holmes?” to see if the man is still awake. 

Holmes rolls over on his side, looks up at Sebastian, and there’s such a softness around his eyes that matches the slight way that his lips are parted that makes Sebastian have to lean down and kiss him. It’s a slow kiss, an asking-permission kiss. But Holmes kisses him back, even reaches out after a moment to put his hand on Sebastian’s forearm. 

They keep kissing, and Sebastian keeps the pace slow. Once, Holmes nips at his bottom lip, but Sebastian doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he runs a hand through Holmes’ sweat-soaked curls, not tugging but stroking the hair, running it through his fingers, running his thumb over those sharp cheekbones. 

He goes give in when Holmes tugs on his arm, gets the message and swings a leg over Holmes so that he’s straddling him. But the kissing continues after that, Sebastian kissing his way up Holmes’ neck with light touches of his lips, never any teeth, until his lips are back on Holmes’. There’s the faintest touch of tongue, not demanding but gentle as it pushes past Holmes’ lips into his mouth. 

“What is this?” Holmes moves his mouth away from Sebastian’s to ask. There’s a twinge of fear in the question, as if they are playing a new game and Holmes now wants the new set of rules. 

But it’s not like that, not like that at all, so Sebastian simply says, “Why don’t you wait and see?” before kissing the man again. The kisses soon travel away from Holmes’ lips, down his neck and over his collar bone, down his chest and back up again as Sebastian gently worships the skin with his mouth, never leaving a mark. 

Holmes’ hands go to Sebastian’s neck, light and first and then more sure of themselves, Sebastian thinks, when no orders are given as to what to do with them. He can feel Holmes’ long fingers on the collar on his shirt, moving toward the buttons, before Holmes’ asks, “Can I?”

Sebastian kisses him once for asking before sitting up, still straddling Holmes. “Let me,” Sebastian replies, quickly undoing the small buttons and throwing the soiled shirt aside. 

Holmes’ hands are back on him in an instant, palms flat as he runs them up and down Sebastian’s chest as if he’s trying to read the Braille of his scars. It’s only when Holmes’ hands drift down to Sebastian’s trousers that he bats them away. “Patience,” he says, before leaning down to kiss Holmes again. 

They kiss for what feels like an eternity. They kiss as Holmes’ hands explore the bare skin of Sebastian’s back, as Holmes tries to deepen the kiss, tries to wriggle into more friction. But Sebastian is stubborn, reigning it in each time. 

“Please,” Holmes puffs out, as if certain that will switch the pace of things. “Fuck me.”

Sebastian kisses Holmes once more, quickly. “That’s not going to work this time, I’m afraid,” he says quietly. “But I’m still going to give you what you need. You can trust me to do that, can’t you?” he asks, and the honesty in his voice surprises even him. 

Holmes give a short nod, and Sebastian runs a hand through his hair for it. “Good,” he replies, before starting to shimmy out of his trousers and pants. It’s not as graceful as he would of liked and he can’t help but notice Holmes staring at him as he does it, as Sebastian gets naked for the first time in their encounters. He’s half-hard already, not like Sherlock who’s already hard again, had been since Sebastian took his shirt off. 

Sebastian goes back to kissing Holmes. He can feel his own lips getting chapped but doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to move past these constant kisses and light touches yet. Not until he’s sure Holmes had has his fill, has had every inch of his lips thoroughly kissed and every piece of skin that Sebastian can reach thoroughly caressed. 

“If you don’t do something more than this,” Holmes complains, “I think I’m going to go insane.”

“Is that so?” Sebastian drawls, leaning down so his forehead touches Holmes’. 

He can barely see the way that Holmes’ narrows his eyes, but it’s all there in the way he say, “Yes,” like a petulant child. 

Sebastian kisses his forehead. “Alright then.” He leans up, locates the bottle of lube, and puts enough in his hand to slick up his cock. But when Holmes moves to turn over, Sebastian grabs his arm to stop him. “None of that,” he says, “not this time.” And when Holmes looks confused, Sebastian takes pity on him and leans down to whisper in his ear, “I’m going to fuck you like this, where I can see your face as I slowly work my cock back into your hole.” It’s enough to make Holmes spread his legs wide, and Sebastian situates himself between them. He spends his time stroking Holmes’ thighs, the dips of his hips, the curves of his knees. He position’s Holmes’ feet so that they’re flat on the bed, strokes his calves, and takes in sight of him. Still gorgeous as always, arms by his side as if he has no idea what to do with them now. eyes wide and cock hard again, the tip leaking down onto Holmes’ taught stomach. 

“I’m ready,” Holmes says, picking his head up. 

“I know,” Sebastian replies, “but I’m enjoying the view.”

Holmes makes a _humph_ noise. “You’d enjoy it a lot more if you were fucking me,” says, and there’s no way that Sebastian can argue with that. 

But judging by the way Holmes squirms, presses, tries to speed things up, this isn’t what he had in mind. Sebastian moves slowly, pressing in the tip of his cock only to pull it out again, slowly pressing his way back into Holmes’ body, teasing at it until he has to tell Holmes to relax. Finally Holmes does, and it’s easier after that. 

Sebastian fucks Holmes at a legato pace, holding Holmes’ knees and watching as his cock disappears in and out of Holmes’ hole. He watches as Holmes’ goes from suspicious to engaged, but when his hands reach out to grab on to the blankets, Sebastian leans forward, arms going on either side of Holmes’ chest. “Hold me,” he instructs, never stopping his thrusts, and Holmes does, throwing his arms around Sebastian’s neck like if he wasn’t hold on he would float away. 

Holmes’ grip tightens, and Sebastian can feel Holmes’ cock trapped between their chests, getting not quite enough friction. He buries his head in the juncture where Holmes’ neck needs his shoulder, nuzzling it, kissing it, but never biting. Holmes moans out his name and Sebastian encourages it, calling him gorgeous and darling and whatever else he can think to say.

“I’m close,” Holmes says suddenly before asking, “Can I?”

Sebastian nods, agreeing instantly. “Yeah,” he agrees, pulling back to give Holmes enough room. “Touch yourself,” he adds, “I want to see you come with my cock in your arse.”

Holmes doesn’t need any more encouragement, and Sebastian keeps fucking him in time with the way Holmes’ hand moves on his own cock until Holmes is moaning, coming. Sebastian can feel Holmes’ orgasm around his own cock and he speeds up his thrusts just slightly, fucking Holmes through his orgasm until it’s too much for Sebastian as well and he comes for the second time that day. 

Sebastian pulls out and goes to lay next to Holmes, whose eyes are still closed. He drapes an arm over his chest, not wanting to move him but not wanting to be without the physical contact. Because maybe it was all chemicals and brain activity and nothing more than that, but right now, in the thrall of it, it felt like something so much more. 

Holmes doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move away either. Sebastian wonders if he’s examining his own brain, writing down the reactions he sees in some mental notebook like it’s a school science experiment and Sebastian nothing more than a variable. And when Holmes moves to speak, licking his lips, Sebastian expects something about how what they just did was still nothing cocaine couldn’t also do. 

Instead, Holmes says his name. “Moran?”

“Mm?”

“I,” Holmes begins, and then pauses as if rethinking what it is he wants to say, reordering syllables and punctuation marks into something else. Sebastian lets him have the silence, would let him have anything in this Parisian hotel room with the late afternoon light flitting in past the closed blinds and the expensive sheets under their naked bodies. Anything could happen in this lush room.

When Holmes finally speaks again, it’s to ask, “I was wondering if you knew any places for dinner?”

Sebastian doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or not that that’s all Holmes will ask for, when Sebastian can give so much more. “I do,” he says, fingers drawing lopsided circles on Holmes’ arm. “But they’re all going to require you to wear something better than what you came in here with. And a shower too, I imagine.”

Holmes, who has closed his eyes, replies, “well then it’s a good thing we have hours until dinner.”

And he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t say anything more, but he does rest his head facing Sebastian, and that’s something.


End file.
